


And His Heart was Red

by Capucine



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Knights, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gender Roles, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Past Abuse, Realistic relationship, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roughly a century ago, a curse was cast on the kingdom--all males cannot kill. As a result, women have necessarily had to train to take on the roles now denied to men--fighting, medical work, and so on, repelling attacks from other kingdoms where the curse is not in play who assumed they were weak.</p>
<p>Natasha is a knight. She is known to be a killer, to be one of the shadowy Widower Knights. She is relatively alone--by choice or not. </p>
<p>And then she happens upon Clint Barton, who not only isn't afraid of her, but persists in a killing art he can't possibly use for its purpose. She's intrigued--and frankly, she likes him as a person.</p>
<p>However, what will a relationship between the two lead to? A Widower Knight must kill--a man, archer or no, cannot. They are imbalanced. It can only end badly.</p>
<p>Or so they say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unafraid

**Author's Note:**

> No smut this chapter! I'm kinda trying to get into writing mild sexual content to get comfortable with, well, sex in general. *is horribly repressed despite extensive sexual knowledge*
> 
> Expect happy relationship stuff--and other not so happy stuff.

Natasha was a knight, born and bred.

Her red hair always splashed behind her like a wave of blood, out of her dark metal helmet and her blade flashed like a lightning bolt sent to smite enemies.

She looked like God's judgment, sent to Earth, an avenging angel.

And she was not. She knew that. There was little remotely good about her or her original purpose.

There were Lady Knights and there were Widower Knights when it came to warriors in combat in this day and age—and she was not a Lady Knight.

Knights of old were long gone in this kingdom. A curse had been placed on the men of this land about a hundred years ago—not one could kill. They could die, but they could not kill—not each other, not by accident, not on purpose, and not in the case of life or death situations.

Such as, for example, invasion by unsimilarly cursed kingdoms.

Natasha always thought that the kingdom had responded admirably—the knights immediately training women and in-between people to do the work. To fight and kill. To splatter the blood on the ground they simply could not.

But some old sensibilities still held—hence the difference between the white armor of the Lady Knights, and the blackened armor of the Widower Knights.

And Natasha knew she was different, could feel it in the scars on her body and the ache of her bones. She knew that, as a Widower Knight, she couldn't expect much in terms of relationships—of any kind.

But, as she figured out quickly, there were still people who refused to fit into what was expected—and Clint Barton was one of them.

She discovered him at the archery range—one weapon not practiced as much since the advent of magic-type projectiles. Magic had its costs, and arrows were still far more cost-effective, but it took many years to train an archer properly, and magic-type projectiles could only be created by an experienced witch, but anyone could shoot them.

Well, women could, anyway. To hit.

Clint was a man in purple—and it was practically eye-watering, his bad choice in colors. It actually made her smile a little, a half-smirk, as she strode up the range.

“Are you trying to be an eyesore?” she asked, though she didn't use a mean tone. It was friendly—if he recognized it, anyway. A lot of people did not.

He turned, startling just very minutely, before an easy smirk came back on his face as he gestured towards the garish purple. “Gotta offset my good looks somehow—it isn't fair to the other men otherwise.”

He probably didn't actually think he was good looking, as his tone suggested—but he was. His nose was crooked, a bit, clearly from a break—or more than one, and he had a naturally frowning, moody looking face. However, it was clear that was not his attitude so much, as much as he probably tried to pass it off that way. 

Natasha smiled. “Ah, I see. Evening the playing field. Admirable.”

“Yeah. I try to be a hero, but, you know, I kinda draw the line at festivals in my honor, so, don't tell anyone.” He nocked the arrow his bow, and then, without so much as blinking, sent the arrow exactly into the heart of the target.

Natasha raised her eyebrows. They were at a farther distance than most archers even practiced at—the line, marked by chalk, was quite a few feet in front of them. “You think you could hit an apple off a kid's head?”

Clint snorted. “Certainly couldn't hit the kid's head, so, yeah.” There was an undertone of frustration. “Apple's kinda an easy target, though. It isn't moving, and it's not oddly shaped or anything. You don't have to be extremely precise to hit it.”

“I see. Apples are like barn walls, then?” Natasha said, smiling a little.

“No. Apples are apples and apples are easy. You want hard, try hitting a button on a dummy or something while it's moving.” 

She liked that he wasn't scared of her at all. Widower Knights certainly had a reputation, and there was no way he could mistake her black clothes as anything but a Widower Knight's.

Bravery in the face of knowing he could do nothing to protect himself should she up and decide to kill him was either admirable—or outright foolhardy. She considered it more admirable in this case, though.

He seemed to twirl an arrow in his hand, showing off with a face concentrated on the target, and nocked it to his bow, instantly shooting it off and sending it slicing through the middle of the previous arrow. He gave a sort of satisfied smirk at her. “Easy.”

She caught herself smiling back. “Natasha Romanoff,” she introduced.

His smirk morphed into more of an easy grin. “Clint Barton.”

Natasha picked up his second bow, clearly his and set carefully nearby—she could tell by the way he didn't tense or start that it was all right. “Teach me. I don't trust magic, Barton.”

“You and me both,” Clint agreed, and set to work doing so.

It was a long afternoon, which stretched into just when it started to get dusky. Natasha's arms ached a bit—not because she wasn't strong, but because she didn't have quite the same strength as Clint. She surmised he would be just as sore if he had to learn to fight using her weapons.

And he did seem a bit sore anyway, and definitely tired. She smiled just a bit to herself as she realized he'd probably pushed himself longer than usual to impress her.

As she had, really.

They leaned against each other at the base of a tree in the grounds, as Clint popped the cork out of a bottle of ale (non-alcoholic, but still that nasty flavor) and she opened a satchel of food. He'd brought a generic lunch of hard cheese and hard bread; she'd brought fruit bread, candied nuts, some cured meat, and so on.

They shared, not unlike small children that happened to be together, swapping foods easily and without a word. He seemed very pleased to have meat, and she was glad to have peasant-made, typical cheese. It had been a little while, given that it was stereotypical peasant-meal—but it was like her childhood. It was like being back in that little kitchen and supping on a soup with cheese.

Clint looked over at her when they'd eaten, saying, “So. You want to keep learning? The bow's kind of a purposely-forgotten art, after all.” There was a definite light behind his eyes, a hope that she would, that he would see her again.

Natasha smiled at him. “Yes. How could I pass up an opportunity to show up magic when it fails?”

Clint snorted. “Fuck magic.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Natasha agreed.

It was a small segment of time spent together after that—talking, mostly about fighting and things like that. He knew a lot, though obviously he didn't have actual experience.

She wondered why he did, but she had to go—Widower Knights were required to report by a curfew.

“See you, Barton.”

He nodded, and then said, kind of hopefully, “This time tomorrow?”

“Yeah. This time tomorrow,” she agreed, and felt a little thrill in her chest when he smiled at that.

She would definitely be there. And though she wasn't certain she wanted to admit it to another person, she admitted to herself—she liked Clint Barton. She wasn't sure _how_ yet, but she wanted to be around him.

And she would make sure that was the case as long as he wanted it.


	2. Ugly Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Clint get to know each other a bit.

Clint was surprisingly strong—though Natasha supposed it shouldn't have really been a surprise. There were certainly strong men—it was just that she was far more used to strong women.

But Clint had her balanced on his shoulders pretty easily as she fished an 'errant' arrow out of the tree. She was pretty sure he'd been messing around on purpose, given his generally perfect aim, but it was nice to touch him. Which sounded a bit weird, but...he was warm. He was sort of soft to the touch—not in a squishy way, but in a smooth way, she supposed.

And he didn't even seem to flinch at her legs on his shoulders, where they could easily wrap around his neck and choke off his air, or even break his neck, though that took a lot of effort.

She nearly startled when his hands rested gently on her lower thighs, and he tilted his head back to offer her a grin. “You found the arrow yet?”

She flushed a little, but it wasn't totally embarrassment—it was hard to explain. It was so far from humiliation, just a sort of gentle feeling, that she had a hard time understanding it. She snatched up the light arrow, fletched with white feathers, undoubtedly from a dove, and lightly thwacked the top of his head with it. “I found it, thank you.”

She thought she saw his face kind of...twitch. Flinch. But he quickly cleared it, a more neutral expression—then an attempt back at smiling. “For that, I'm not going to help you down.”

A lot of people would have dumped her—no. He literally couldn't. Dumping someone risked a fatal injury, and that was about when Natasha realized what she'd done. She tentatively sort of petted down the spot on his head she'd hit, and said, “Sorry.”

He blinked in surprise, like he wouldn't expect her to apologize. “Um, that's okay.” But he did help her down—she could have gotten down without injury to herself, but the way he gripped her, helped lower her down, was...it was very different.

What Natasha was used to was the rough and tumble world of the Widower Knights. There, they would regularly hit each other, spar, roughhouse, so on and so forth. She knew kindness, she knew how to be gentle...it just wasn't what was typical.

They were quiet a moment, and Clint said, breaking the silence with an almost shy grin, “You want to hit an apple, Natasha? I hear they're like the side of a barn.”

Natasha couldn't help the smile that spread across her face at his teasing. It was funny, and very specific to them. That was somehow special. It was hard to explain, exactly. But she picked up her bow and arrows (standard issue—for a couple decades ago, Natasha believed, but Clint had gotten them back into shape) and stood, saying, “Show me, then. Who knows when we might have an apple invasion, after all?”

Clint laughed at that. “Well, it would be nice, in my opinion. Anyway, I got a small bag of them the other day--”

Natasha realized that she hadn't seen such a bag yesterday. He had gotten them for today especially. She watched as he picked each slightly misshapen, ugly apple out of the bag, lining them up on the lip of the target. It had a frame, which jutted out just enough to support the apples.

He looked over at her, and his tanned skin seemed to contrast with the pale green-yellow of the apples. His blue eyes seemed to positively glow, even if there was clearly some attempt to be guarded, as he gestured. “Voila! Some of the ugliest enemies you'll ever take down.”

“Well, they are soldiers, aren't they?” Natasha said, with a smirk. She drew her bow, as Clint made it back to her and stood, watching her form.

“Ah, yes, those poor louts. Can't spare good looking guys to fight your wars,” Clint said, easy grin on his face.

“Yes. Their handsome faces would be too easy as targets,” Natasha said, pulling the drawstring taut. It took some force, some strength, but she was strong and could manage it.

“Exactly. Ugly people, they're a penny for a dozen. You get a whole bunch of them, none of them's gonna stand out,” Clint responded.

Natasha narrowly avoided laughing, and made the shot, sort of in the upper hand 'corner' of the first apple, making it pierce it and sink into the wood behind it.

Clint nodded, saying, “Yup. You're a natural. No wonder you kill people for a living.”

A sort of flash went through her—maybe anger. Yeah, hurt, anger, all that. She looked to him, and she saw the look in his blue eyes change—like he realized what he'd done, too.

There was a bit of confusion, but he said, “Sorry.” His tone indicated he didn't entirely understand the hurt he picked up on in her face, but he would rather apologize than hurt her.

It made her feel...that strange warm feeling again. She looked to the toes of her boots, dark black leather with sharp symbols embroidered in. She sighed, softly. “I would rather not kill, Clint. I know you have no choice not to kill, but...I feel as though I have little choice in killing.”

Clint's brow furrowed. “Why? If you don't like it, why don't you stop being a Widower Knight?” His tone wasn't accusing, just clearly not aware of what went into being a Widower Knight.

Which actually said something else about his lack of fear with her—if he believed she _chose_ to kill, if he believed she liked it...why wasn't he afraid of her?

“Widower Knights are chosen, Clint. Lady Knights choose their vocation—not Widower Knights.” She pressed her lips together, thinking back on being 'chosen.' Given away, rather. Plucked from her merry—more like starving, ragged—band of orphans and put into this.

It brought back strong feelings, and her teeth clenched together, her throat feeling like it was a sponge soaking up with water.

Clint looked at her with an empathy in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

Natasha swallowed hard, saying, “Yeah, I know. It's okay.”

“It's not,” Clint said, almost as if he was unsure about pressing it, but he turned to her with his blue eyes very sincere. “If you feel strongly about it, you don't have to lie and say it's okay.”

Natasha wasn't sure whether to be mad he said she was lying or to be warmed by the idea that he cared enough to be sincere. She sighed, glancing at the low sun. “I have to go, Clint.”

He sort of bit his lip a bit (which seemed to have taken a lot of such abuse), and said, “See you tomorrow?”

She hesitated—but there was something about Clint that made her want to see him again. “Yes. See you tommorrow.”

He smiled, and she left.

She would probably dream about him that night, she thought—but first she had to get through evening sparring.

And that was not something she necessarily looked forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are liking it so far! It's rather challenging to me, honestly. I don't do much romance, but I want to do it in a way that reflects a lot of reality, despite the unrealistic circumstances, lol.
> 
> :)


	3. Being a Widower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha sees her fellow Widower Knights--but it's Clint that she's looking forward to seeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Introduced some characters that might be a titch obscure--Bobbi Morse (aka Mockingbird), Maria Hill, and Yelena Berlova (also Black Widow).
> 
> Yelena is a challenge, but necessary.

Sparring went about as well as could be expected--her fellow women were sort of asses in general.

Well, not all of them, in all honesty. Maria Hill was a friend, or at least, Natasha counted her as one, with her close-cropped black hair a nice indicator of her no-nonsense attitude. She didn't often see Maria smile, not even when winning a sparring match or some such.

Another friend: Bobbi Morse. She sang like a bird--and sometimes made Natasha think of the legendary Roc, a deadly bird that could carry elephants. The thing that all feared--and Bobbi was easily that on the battlefield.

Both of these women, Bobbi's long, braided blonde hair swishing in every motion she made, were sparring with each other at the moment.

And Natasha watched, for the moment, while bandaging up cut knuckles--catching someone's teeth was never all that great.

She thought about Clint. He certainly didn't look like either Bobbi or Maria, but he moved kind of like them--strong. Determined. A certain amount of pride and spunk. She kind of wished he was here--his skin was warm.

Maria smacked Bobbi down, and then pinned her arm behind her back. "You've lost this one."

"It isn't over until the fat lady sings--"

"And that would be Natasha, wouldn't it?" It was not a friendly voice--instead, it was Yelena. "Or, maybe not so much fat as liking to think she's a _lady_."

Natasha looked at Yelena coolly. "Ah, if it isn't blonde-and-bad-at-insults. How are you, Yelena?"

Yelena tossed her blonde hair, a shorter cut than Natasha's--she had claimed it was purely more practical, eyeing Natasha's hair with disdain. Natasha was pretty certain Yelena had actually been attacked somehow. She certainly had enemies. "I am well. And not forgetting my place, either."

Maria had released Bobbi. Both were watching silently, but not obtrusively.

"And what place is that, Yelena?" Natasha said, looking down at her fingernails and seeing how chipped they were--which they weren't. She'd cut them down recently--a long fingernail had a certain amount of danger of being caught in something and yanked off.

"A Widower Knight. A proper one. A deadly one. Not the kind that people would look at and think, 'I should try to bed her, she looks easy.'" Yelena was giving her a pointed look. Yelena had always taken the Widower Knight motto, which had been written one hundred years ago, far more seriously than many others.

"And who is saying that? I was not aware I gave off those sorts of signals. I would think people diving out of my way in town would not indicate wanting to bed me," Natasha said, curling a lock of red hair around her finger.

Yelena gave her a cold look. "You bring disgrace on the name."

She turned on her heel, and stalked off.

Maria didn't say anything, fairly content to keep her own secrets and allow others to as well, but Bobbi dropped down next to Natasha, where she had been seated on a sideways punching block. "What just happened? Yelena doesn't usually say stuff like _that_."

Natasha shrugged. "She must be trying a new tactic."

Maria's mouth was a bit pinched, and she said, "Just make sure she doesn't try more extreme tactics." It was a way of saying, 'Don't get hurt, be safe' but as always Maria wasn't forthcoming with that sort of thing. A lot of them weren't.

Bobbi was still watching her, sort of a jaded curiosity in her eyes. "You're not doing anything unusual, are you?"

Like she had seen people topple--they all had, but for grave offenses, more typically. Not for talking to an archer man and learning how to shoot an arrow. That would be ridiculous--as far as Natasha was aware, there were no rules against it.

"Of course not," Natasha responded, and she stood. "Maria. You won, it's my turn."

Maria nodded, and dropped into a fighting stance.

Bobbi sighed, sitting back. She tossed her braid over her shoulder, murmuring, "Come on, Nat, don't go getting yourself in trouble..."

But Natasha ignored her. She had to focus on the fight, for one thing--and for another, she wasn't sure she wanted to dwell.

Yelena was an idiot. She had no idea what she was talking about.

And Natasha was not certain on how to feel about seeing Clint again tomorrow--other than the warm glow in her chest.

She won the match, and endured the rest of the training for that night--slept like a babe.

She could forget Yelena--Clint would be there tomorrow.

\--

And Clint was there tomorrow.

She didn't miss the way his eyes lit up on seeing her, just as he was finishing up fletching an arrow. It seemed he may have been doing that for hours, a stack of arrows at his side.

"They don't really make them much anymore," he said by way of explanation. "I mostly make my own."

She nodded, and sat down next to him. "Show me, then. I may have need of my own arrows."

"You sure? It's an entirely different kind of thing, really. Kinda like making swords and wielding them are different." Clint was watching her, blue eyes turned away from his almost-done arrow.

"Well, I do try to be multi-skilled," Natasha said, with a smile.

He smiled back, saying, "All right, then. Hang around me, you're going to pick up a lot of skills." He flushed very slightly at that. "Not, uh--"

"Well, you'll pick up skills from me as well, archer," Natasha responded, before he could completely stumble over himself. She smirked just slightly at him, and felt a sort of thrill through her chest--was she sure about this? She was _flirting_ , she had no doubt about that, and she had a feeling of a nervous tremor in her chest, but it was good at the same time.

Clint flushed slightly more, but smiled back. "Yeah, we'll just have to see. We'll both be regular jacks of all trades in a bit, huh?"

Natasha took the materials offered by Clint, feeling his hand brush hers. It was silly, because she'd certainly touched him more than that, but it felt warm and lovely. She wasn't certain, but that was okay.

They spent much of the day working on making arrows, chatting the whole time--about anything and everything. It was surprising how much Clint had to say on everything--and how much Natasha related, or could understand. How much she found it all interesting and not mindless small talk or the words of a small mind puttering around.

She could have talked for many hours--but when his hand brushed her shoulder, pushing her hair back very carefully, she stopped talking for a moment, reveling in the feeling of someone moving her hair that way. It was gentle, it felt amazing, somehow. 

He seemed to lose his nerve for whatever he was going to do, and he murmured, "Uh, your face is pretty."

And she narrowly kept from laughing at that, just smiling at him. That kind of smile that you couldn't help, that you really meant. It wasn't funny--it was endearing. "Thank you. Your face is very nice too."

That was about when she realized the sun was starting to go down, and the smile was gone. She stood, sighing. "I'd better get going. See you tomorrow."

He seemed almost shocked at the certain, concrete tone, but he nodded. "Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow. Uh, have a good night."

"You too. Don't get caught out here after dark."

And she headed home, and sighed to herself in a contented way as she rode her horse back. Forget Yelena--Clint was just...

He was someone she wanted to be around. And she would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so--Daisy Johnson (comic book version) may also show up, and same with Kate Bishop. I hope it made sense!
> 
> Yelena is kinda Natasha's successor in the comics, though not exactly prominent. It's more of a challenge to find women to fit in this than I thought it would be, lol, but Yelena is perfect for it.
> 
> Coulson *might* show up, and Clint's family will definitely show up. Hope you're liking it so far!


	4. To be drunk without drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria and Bobbi are worried about Natasha. She tells them it's nothing.
> 
> It's really not.

Bobbi was waiting outside her compartment when she got there. "Nat," she greeted, nodding. Natasha wouldn't describe her as a grinning person, or all that jovial, but she looked unusually solemn.

"Bobbi," Natasha returned, voice somewhat impersonal. She very much didn't want a confrontation--or more importantly, an intervention. It wasn't fair and it was uncalled for. She hadn't done anything wrong.

Fair was rarely a common concept in her life, but she felt she could claim it now.

"Maria and I wanted to talk to you."

"And Maria couldn't make it?" Natasha responded, eyeing her comrade with a cool look.

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Natasha, don't take this the wrong way. We're your friends."

Natasha had to concede that point. The three of them had certainly worked together a lot, though Natasha was a little hesitant to affix the title of friend to either of them at times. It might have been more a fear of what would happen to them to get to her, though. Vulnerability.

She chose not to dwell on that.

"Maria's inside. I thought a total surprise was a bad choice, given our training," Bobbi said, flicking her blonde braid over her shoulder.

Natasha sighed. She could definitely trust them not to kill her. Definitely. So she followed Bobbi in.

She shared this compartment, a small room like the many rooms built in the barracks adjoining the castle, and her bedmate was gone. The girl was younger than her, and she was meant to mentor, at least a little.

Natasha also knew that sometimes things didn't go that way.

Maria was inside, though, seated on the bed. She was watching her with a solemn face as well.

Bobbi closed the door, but made sure not to take a threatening posture. They'd seen enough assassinations go down to not want to put it on that foot. 

Assassination was a strong word, though. It implied a figure of actual power, rather than merely an upstart in the Widower ranks.

"So. What's this about?" Natasha demanded, not letting them get the first words in.

Maria started, saying calmly, "How long have we watched each others' backs?"

"Since girlhood," Natasha replied. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, but she'd give them a chance to not go there.

Maria frowned. "And in that time, have any of us died or suffered crippling injuries?"

"Obviously not," Natasha said sharply, "If you're intending to say I'm endangering us all and I should stop what you think is a danger, you should know I won't."

Bobbi let out a sigh. "Okay, just stop a moment. Yes, there is a little danger in seeing the archer, but that's not our point. Our point is, you didn't tell us."

Natasha's eyebrows rose. "What do you think I'm doing with Barton that you need to be told?"

"I don't know, we've only heard through the grapevine," Bobbi replied.

"You're laying it on a little thick," Natasha responded.

Maria looked annoyed. "Relationships outside of the Widower Knights are not unheard of. We know it's legitimate enough. But they tend towards a quick fuck, or something similar--what you have, we're worried."

"I don't have anything," Natasha said irritably. What was wrong with them? They hadn't so much as kissed. She wasn't even sure she wanted to kiss him. Hell, what if he didn't want to kiss her? It was all ridiculous, she barely knew him.

She only was interested in him. As a person. This was blown extremely far out of proportion.

Bobbi and Maria exchanged glances.

"I take it the stories of you fucking in full view on the range are lies, then?" Maria's deadpan made it almost funny.

Natasha gave a disgusted huff. "Some people have nothing better to do than gossip. I assure you, you have no need to worry about my love life--or lack thereof."

Bobbi cracked a smile. "Okay. I guess we'll spare you the lurid details. I'm told the archer is well hung."

Natasha rolled her eyes again.

Maria seemed satisfied with this, and held out a bowl. "We saved you soup. The squire should be back soon, so if you feel like sharing..."

"Yeah, I'll give her some soup," Natasha returned with a sigh.

Maria and Bobbi left at that point. Natasha ate a little bit of the soup, having eaten mostly what Clint brought, and she put the rest aside for the squire.

Her thoughts were on Clint for a moment. For longer than a moment.

She slept soundly, though. As soundly as one did. She didn't even hear her squire come in.

\--

Clint was already smiling when he saw her, face lit up a little. Not in an outrageous way, just that simple delight that Natasha had already come to enjoy, like when he made a tricky shot or the apples were hit with a satisfying noise.

"Hey, I grabbed you a quiver today--it makes it that much easier, honestly."

Natasha nodded, studying his face a moment. There really shouldn't be anything that set him apart from any other man--he had his nose, eyes, mouth, all that, and he wasn't some unnatural shade. His eyes were beautiful, but many men and people in general had that color for their eye color. His ears didn't stand out. He had an easy smile, and yet it seemed like it wasn't there on his face frequently. His manner was sort of gruff, not all that charming.

And yet...yet, all together, Natasha didn't want to look away. She didn't want to not see him.

There was something indescribable. Not like magic, not like she would never survive if she lost him. Just... _something_.

He blinked. "Are you okay?"

She nodded at him, keeping her feelings hidden. He looked over, and, rather than commenting, tossed her her bow.

"You look like you need to shoot some very ugly gourds. Have at them."

And she couldn't help the snort of laughter as she saw the gourds lined up at the end. They were indeed very ugly, covered in bumps and bruises and scars, to the point that Natasha thought Clint must have gone out of his way to find the absolute ugliest. "I see you brought your brothers."

"Aw, that's very mean," Clint returned, though there was a slight smirk in the corner of his mouth. A certain relaxed posture that wasn't there just a moment ago. "You're going to hurt Barney's feelings."

The name was new. She looked to the ugliest gourd, and said, "That Barney?"

"Yeah, shoot him in the ass," Clint responded, letting out an almost self conscious laugh. "Or the face, if you can tell the difference."

Natasha didn't even know Clint's brother, if he existed, but she found herself strangely pleased at making fun of him. She let loose an arrow, and it landed square in one of the bumps.

Clint was sitting, she realized, watching her a moment. His face said he was studying her form to make sure she was shooting right. His eyes seemed to say something else, and she wasn't certain what it was.

Not lust. Not the way some men stared before perhaps fearing for their lives.

She studded 'Barney' full of arrows, and turned back to Clint. "So. You have a brother?"

"Do you?" Clint returned, as if asking if she also had some unspeakable disease. 

"Not that I'm aware of," Natasha had to return. She might very well have any number of siblings or half siblings, and she didn't want to think much on it.

Clint seemed to sense that, and sighed. "Yeah, I have a brother. Barney. He's older. Only sibling I have, though."

"He's lucky, then."

Clint looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. "Why?"

Natasha shrugged. "You seem like you'd be a good brother."

Clint snorted at that, and then teased, "I hate to tell you this, but my parents aren't in an adoptive mood. If you want to be related, it'd have to be..." he trailed off, seeming to flush a little. Like he'd just realized where he was taking that joke. 

Natasha laughed at that, though, finding it pretty hilarious. He clearly hadn't meant to suggest marriage, or at least hadn't thought it through, and that was charming. And to see him a little flustered just made her smile, a sort of nervous sunshine in her chest. "I see. I'll have to consider my options, then."

Clint was probably a little redder than he wanted to admit, but he tried to shrug it off. "Yeah, options. I'm sure you have a number of them. And speaking of options, did you want to shoot Jacques or Buck next?"

"Which ones?" Natasha replied, granting him the reprieve. He pointed out a hideously yellow gourd with a lot of scars, and then one with a half rotted bottom and lots of bumps.

She shot them, and looked over at him, seeing him smiling. He seemed to do that a lot.

His eyes met hers, and didn't break contact. "You're a good shot."

He didn't follow it up with a tease. She came over next to him, and he stood, watching her. "So are you," she replied.

It happened fast enough that she wasn't sure it was happening. He put his hand on her shoulder, and leaned in. Maybe it wasn't so much fast as unreal. He pressed his lips against hers a moment, then drew back, a nervous tinge to his tone. "Can I kiss you?"

Like he'd forgotten and realized he should ask. And it was sweet, at least to Natasha, and she nodded, the feeling of lips on hers like intoxication without the burn or the headache. It made her slightly dizzy, and when he kissed her again, she kissed back, not certain what to do with her hands because this was Clint and not any kind of target, just someone she actually liked, and she focused on his lips instead, and suddenly sucked on his lip.

That startled him, amusingly enough, and he drew back. He was flushed, and he murmured, "I--uh--I didn't--"

And she let out an almost nervous giggle. A _giggle_. And yet, she didn't stop to think about it, searching his face for disapproval at the kiss. He mostly seemed flustered, not upset or disturbed. 

"Did...uh, did you want to go kick Barney or something?" he said, almost nonsensical.

"Okay," Natasha replied.

They didn't. She leaned in, kissed him again, and he responded. The rest of the evening went slowly, still doing the archery but occasionally surprising the other. Like an experiment.

Natasha hadn't really kissed anyone like that. It was astonishing innocent and made her head feel light and giddy. It was stupid.

It was exactly the kind of stupid she wanted, though.

And Clint, whether or not it was a good idea, was starting to become perhaps something more than she'd admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I hope this makes sense. This is really not my strong point. :P
> 
> But this is kinda the feeling with my BF. Once we figured out how to kiss decently, lol. He had experience with a very different person, but I had none, so it didn't match up well, to put it lightly. 
> 
> I don't know. I feel like this Natasha is capable of such feelings for sure.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it's good. I don't really write *much* shipping stuff. I really want to do this well! I got the prompt from Tumblr. It's a sad one, but it's not gonna be all sad.
> 
> (I haven't seen Ultron or whatever, though I am aware of Clint's fam and Natasha and Bruce's relationship. :P Pretending that never happened in any universe, lol.)


End file.
